A New Factor
by Tina Shea
Summary: Parent!Lock; Johnlock; fluff. When John and Sherlock take six-year-old Hamish in, they find that parenting is both a blessing and a burden.


John was livid. "Sherlock, we can't just leave him here alone. I'm staying home, you go on the case."

Sherlock sighed. "But John, you know that I need you there."

"Are you suggesting we take a child to a crime scene?"  
"Are you suggesting I go somewhere without you?" Sherlock was sincere. John sighed, grabbing Hamish's hand as the three of them walked out the door.

The cab ride over was quiet, as usual. But it seemed awkward. Different. Hamish sat between the two of them. And Sherlock didn't like it. He looked out the window, brow furrowed in irritation. John looked at his boyfriend uneasily before glancing out his own.

"So what is it that you do exactly?" Hamish's small voice broke the silence. It took a few minutes, and a clearing of John's throat, for Sherlock to realize that the boy was addressing him.

"I'm a consulting detective," he said shortly.

"What's that?" Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"It's a detective that the police ask for help when they don't know how to solve a case," John explained, squeezing Hamish's hand as he shot Sherlock a scornful look.

"Only one in the world," Sherlock said, sighing dismissively.

"So it's a made-up job?"

"No, it's real and quite important."

"Oh."

It was quiet for another moment. "But if it's so important, why are you the only one?"

John snickered. Sherlock ignored them both.

Lestrade looked at them wide-eyed and panicked. "Oh no. No no, stop right there." He barred their way. "You are NOT bringing a child into a crime scene."

Sherlock scoffed. "John insisted."

Lestrade looked at the doctor with some skepticism. "YOU brought him?"

John sighed. "We couldn't leave him alone."

"Yes, but John, I can't allow this. It's not my division—."

"Well," Sherlock turned, smiling at his boyfriend. "That settles it then. Go drop him off at the nearest orphanage."

"Sherlock!" John was fuming. He jabbed his finger at his boyfriend's chest. "You are the one who said you wouldn't come here unless I did, too. And Hamish comes with me now."

Lestrade studied them both. "Now…listen, you two. Hamish may actually be able to help with the case. It has to do with some writing on the wall. Drawings, actually. Murder-suicide, it would seem."

John glanced at Sherlock, who was looking rather stiff, then down at Hamish. He knelt down to have a word with him. "Look, Hamish, this may be a bit scary. If you can help, say what you think could be of use. There will be things here that you have never seen and you may be very sorry that you've seen them. But Sherlock and I will help you and be there for you if you need us, okay?"

Hamish smiled. "Don't worry about it, I'll be fine! I may be able to solve a mystery or two!"

Sherlock sighed, gripping John's hand as he pulled him aside. "John…" he began.

"Sherlock. He's coming with us."

"But John…" the consulting detective pouted. The pouting always won John over in their arguments.

"No Sherlock, now that's quite enough—."

"I BEG your pardon?!" Both men wheeled around. Hamish had wandered off and was now staring curiously up at a member of the forensics team. Anderson, none the less.

"Is she your girlfriend?" Hamish asked again, quite innocently. Anderson flushed.

"Now see here, I'm married!" he managed to say.

Hamish looked back and forth between the two forensic investigators. "But she's wearing your deodorant," he stated.

Anderson was visibly confused.

"Hamish!" John rushed over. "I'm sorry," he stammered.

"No you're not," Sherlock said, approaching them. He grabbed John's hand, winking at Hamish. "That's very clever. Now what might we deduce about the other people here?" he asked.

John glanced at him questioningly; he was clearly testing the little boy. Sherlock raised his eyebrows at John.

Hamish studied Lestrade. "You should really sleep more," he said in a slightly concerned tone. "And I'm sorry about your divorce."

"How the hell…?" Lestrade shook his head.

"Sorry," John mouthed.

"Well, you have a tan line from where your wedding ring used to be," Hamish said simply.

"Well done, Hamish!" Sherlock cried, picking him up and spinning him around. Hamish giggled, and John looked at them both tenderly, a smile spreading across his face.

"John…" Sherlock whined.

"Sherlock, he is six years old."

"So? The floor is quite comfortable, I assure you." They both cast a glance at the little boy sitting on the couch. He smiled at them.

"No, Sherlock."

"But I don't understand why you have to sleep in the same room." Sherlock huffed, going back to the kitchen.

"BECAUSE, Sherlock, he is not going to be left alone." His voice dropped to a whisper as Hamish looked at them curiously.

"John, he's six. I'm sure he can manage."

"Sherlock—." He raised his voice, stopped, and sighed. "I am putting my foot down." A voice sounded from near their waists.

"Can we all just sleep in the family room tonight? That way Father can stop being so upset." John raised an eyebrow at the mention of the word "Father". Sherlock looked as if he had something imperative to tell his boyfriend. But it would have to wait.

John looked at Sherlock, dropping his tone to a whisper. "Please? We'll arrange everything tomorrow. He'll fall asleep quickly, I promise. He's six and probably exhausted."

"And then you and I can sleep together? In an actual bed?" Sherlock pleaded. He took a step toward John.

"WE will be sleeping on the floor, Sherlock. He needs rest, on something as close to a bed as possible. And he wants to be with us. You must understand that."

"Father. He called me Father. Why did he call me Father?!" Sherlock's eyes flickered about the room, searching the air for answers.

"Sherlock," John whispered, taking his boyfriend's hands in his own. "He is a little boy who came to our doorstep just this morning. He needs something in his life to feel stable. Does it really matter?"  
"Of course it matters, John."

They looked at Hamish, who was walking around the living room, examining Sherlock's books and odd collections. John studied his boyfriend's face before leaning in to whisper in his ear. "Do you have something you need to tell me?"

Sherlock nodded. He looked pained. "Later." He pressed John's hand and walked back into the living room, tea on trays.

Hamish fell asleep on the couch in about half an hour. One minute, he was talking John's ear off about how he'd already deduced who the murderer was with Sherlock silent next to him. The next, he was lightly breathing, little hand sprawled over the couch, touching John's.

John got up to turn off the telly. He and Sherlock lay on the floor in silence. John turned to his boyfriend and moved his arms around him. "Will you tell me now?" His phone buzzed on the other side and John sighed. Of course. Sherlock would only text him the important stuff. He was rubbish at saying it. His phone vibrated about six times before John picked it up.

"When I…when I left, I watched you for about a month. You were so alone, you were so …lifeless, I couldn't stand it. You needed someone. It took a while to find a surrogate who looked like you, but…I did what was necessary. Nine months later, she contacted me, saying that the child had been born and she had named him due to my instructions. I said to send him when I came back. But I forgot, John, I forgot about our child. And now he's here."

John dropped his phone.

"Are you okay?" Sherlock murmured.

"I…I don't know." John shook his head in the darkness.

"I love you."

"I love you, too, Sherlock. I just don't know how to feel about this. How could…you…and I…Jesus, Sherlock."

The consulting detective turned to face John and put his forehead against his.

"Are you…crying, John?"

"Shut up," he said quickly, his voice cracking on the last word.

Sherlock hesitated before touching his lips to John's, softly, gently.

"Sherlock…" he touched his boyfriend's face and, to his surprise, felt wetness.

"He was supposed to be YOUR son, John. She wasn't supposed to tell him about me." He took in a breath and pulled away. "He's not supposed to be OUR son."

"But he is, Sherlock." John smiled at him and made him face him again. "He's our son, and he's the best thing you could have ever given me." John kissed him. "Besides you coming home." He felt wetness under his fingertips again, but decided not to mention it. Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, did not cry. And John wasn't about to tell him otherwise.

They lay there together in the darkness, Sherlock's head resting on John's chest. Neither of them slept. Their heads were too full for that. John finally broke the silence. "What do we tell Hamish?"

There was a pause. "The truth. All of it," Sherlock answered decidedly.

"Sherlock—."

"John, please. It was my mistake. Allow me to fix it."

John stared at the ceiling. He was searching for the right words to say. "Sherlock," he began, "our son is not a mistake; our son is a miracle. I don't know how to say what I feel right now, but…" he cleared his throat. "I…uhm…thank you, Sherlock."

Sherlock adjusted himself to lock eyes with him. "I forgot about him, John. For six years."

"That was a bit of an arsehole move, actually," John admitted. They began to laugh quietly, their faces hidden in each other's shoulders, hushing themselves so as not to wake their son. Laughter turning to tears turning to light kisses, they eventually became silent and their breathing heavy as they drifted off to sleep in each other's arms.

The next morning, Sherlock and John woke up to a peculiar smell. Normally, Sherlock would be the cause of said smell, but he was right next to his boyfriend when they woke up. Another rarity. Sherlock was usually the first one up.

So what on earth…?

"Good morning Dad, good morning Father!" Two cups of coffee were set down on a tray next to them. They stared. Hamish smiled cheerily at them. He was wearing Sherlock's house robe.

_He was wearing Sherlock's house robe._

John looked at Sherlock, mouth open. Sherlock's was clamped tightly shut. His eyes were struggling to figure this new anomaly into their lives.

The robe was much too big for him. Naturally, Hamish stumbled away, tripping over his feet until he flopped into John's chair. The men continued to stare at him. He raised an overgrown cup of coffee to his lips, wedged awkwardly between his two small hands.

"What?"

"Aren't you a little young to be drinking coffee?" John finally asked, looking befuddled.

Hamish shrugged. "But you do! I wanted to be like you guys," he said, blushing as he looked down into his mug.

John smiled, rising his eyebrows at the child who looked entirely too small in every sense. He stood, feeling the effects of spending the whole night on the floor, and approached the chair opposite where Hamish was sitting. "Hamish, we will love you no matter what you drink," he said, chuckling.

Sherlock sat up at the use of the word 'we'. He knew how to love John, but…he had never expected to love a child. It was an entirely new, though not at all bad, feeling.

Feeling a sudden pang of guilt, Sherlock approached the edge of Hamish's chair. "John is right. You can drink whatever you want, though coffee may not be the healthiest choice for a six year old," he chimed in, a smile spreading across his face. John gazed at him lovingly.

"Thank you, Dad," the little boy said, placing his coffee on the table beside the armchair that enveloped him. He cleared his throat and began fidgeting with the silk sleeves of the robe. "Is that alright? If I call you guys 'Dad'?"

Sherlock stiffened. John looked up at him. Fear spread across his features for an instant before he turned to Hamish. He smiled wanly. "I'm not sure Sherlock would want the same title as me, Hamish."

Hamish looked worried. "Father? Can I call you 'Father', then?" Sherlock held completely still. "You don't look like much of a 'Dad' anyways."

Sherlock's hand tightened on John's shoulder. His knuckles were white. He swallowed. John prayed to God that he wouldn't say anything stupid.

He opened his mouth. "When I take my coffee, I take it black, two sugars," Sherlock said matter-of-factly, turning to the tray. "There will be no fooling about. And no late nights, you'll go to bed when we say."

John sighed.

"And I suppose…" he turned the tray around, holding it in his hands. "you can call me 'Father', if you'd like." A small smile graced his features, and John relaxed. Hamish smiled back.

John followed Sherlock into the kitchen. "Thank you," he sighed, smiling largely. Sherlock examined his boyfriend's features closely.

"For what?"

John was incredulous. "Are you serious? What you just did, right now. I was afraid you wouldn't want him to call you anything at all."

Sherlock looked genuinely hurt. "John, this situation may be new to me, but I would never intentionally harm a small child's feelings, especially not our child's. You love him so much already. I can tell."

John smiled and approached Sherlock. "Of course I do. And I love him more because he's yours, and you did all of this for me," he whispered in the consulting detective's ear, wrapping his arms around his waist. Sherlock pressed his forehead against John's, smiling. Hamish's small voice caused them to pull apart.

"Excuse me, Dad, Father, can we have breakfast now?"

John cleared his throat, his hand still lingering on Sherlock's but his body now facing Hamish.

"I suppose you'll have to eat. Just like your dad," Sherlock said, winking at John, who looked away, blushing embarrassedly.

"What would you like, Hamish?" John asked, crouching down to his level.

"I don't really mind, but," he dropped his voice to a whisper, "can we make sure Father eats, too? I don't want you two to worry about each other, ever." John glanced up to read Sherlock's expression. He was smiling, tears slowly building in his eyes.

"I suppose, if I must, I'll have toast," he finally struggled to say, clearing his throat brusquely. The child should not be affecting him so much. He needed a strong paternal figure. God knows that John would undoubtedly be the woman. But Hamish smiled at him again and Sherlock felt a bit of his resolve crumble.

"Father?" he asked at the table. His feet swung from the chair.

"Hm?"

"Do you have anywhere to go today?"

John glanced at him.

Sherlock paused for a moment, clearing his throat once again. "I will have to go to the station to tell Lestrade who to call in for questioning, at some point," he answered.

"Can I come too, Father?"

John looked worriedly at Sherlock. They couldn't take him everywhere, especially considering he had just been to a crime scene the previous evening.

"I suppose," Sherlock said at length, "you may come with us if you wish." He nodded to John, indicating that he would be joining them as well.

"Thank you Father!" Hamish turned to John. "Dad, after we're done at the station, can we go shopping? I think I may need some new clothes soon." Sherlock laughed, shaking his head. The little boy was already catching on that John was the less masculine of the pair.

"Of course," John answered, smiling. He was already beginning to feel like a dad.


End file.
